Friends with Benefits
by Soledad
Summary: Ever wondered how did John end up applying for work at Sarah Sawyer's shared practice, of all places? Perhaps he had some help. Canon-compliant story, set during Series 1.
1. Prologue

**Friends with Benefits**

**by Soledad**

**Fandom:** Sherlock BBC

**Genre:** Romance/Friendship

**Rating:** Teens, for now

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock and all related characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern versions of them belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, may their muses never abandon them. I only borrow settings and characters to have some fun. No copyright infringement intended and no money made.

**Summary:** Just how did John get the job at the very surgery where Sarah worked? Perhaps he had some help?

**Author's note:** All details on British medical training are taken from wellingtongoose's excellent meta, who knows what s/he is talking about. I'm neither British, nor a doctor, so I needed some professional help with the background facts.

Beta read by Linda Hoyland in record time, thanks!

* * *

**Prologue**

"I need a job," John Watson declared unhappily and stared at his pint of beer as if there were something suspicious about it.

Detective Inspector Lestrade, sitting on the other side of the table with his own pint, looked at the ex-Army-doctor with tolerant amusement.

"Life with Sherlock too expensive for you?" he asked.

In the last month and a half, since the end of the so-called "serial suicides", the detective inspector and the doctor had become… well, if not exactly friends, at least casual acquaintances. Bonding over the fact that they both had to deal with the brilliant, arrogant and difficult Sherlock Holmes – the world's only consulting detective – in their respective ways, the two semi-regularly met for pints in various pubs to commiserate.

Since Sherlock despised pubs, unless he had to set foot in one for a case – as he always said, the level of noise and stupidity offended him too much – they could be fairly certain he wouldn't show up unexpectedly to bother them.

Unless he wanted to show off, that is, but _that_ usually happened in connection with a case, not in the lull time in-between.

"You mean the fact that he never bothers with paying for the cab or with doing the shopping?" John asked back with only a minimum of annoyance. He'd already grown used to Sherlock's nonchalant attitude towards the dull facts of life… that is, to almost everything _not_ related to a case. "Nah, that's not the problem. If I wanted, I could use his card all the time. He's quite generous with his money for someone who needed a flatmate so that he would be able to afford 221B."

"Oh, he's got more than enough money," Lestrade grinned. "It's his _brother_ who wanted him to get a flatmate, and Mycroft is the one who controls the Holmes family money, _including_ Sherlock's considerable funds. That's the only leash he has on Sherlock… such as it is."

"Why would Mycroft want Sherlock to have a flatmate?" John asked with a frown. "Cause he needed somebody to spy on his brother?"

"That's one way to put it," Lestrade agreed. "Mycroft Holmes is a controlling, overbearing bastard with a tendency towards melodrama, but in his own twisted way he truly cares for Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, calls it meddling – and he isn't entirely wrong about that – and does his best to escape his brother's constant… er… attention. You know what a pig-headed idiot he can be if he _doesn't_ want to do something, right?"

"Oh yeah," John said with feeling.

He lived under the same roof as the madman, after all. Long enough to know that as fascinating as Sherlock could be, he was by no means safe. Not for himself, and most definitely not for those around him.

"In any case," Lestrade continued. "Mycroft would never allow his little brother to run out of money, as long as he can be reasonably sure that Sherlock wouldn't spend it on drugs. Having a reliable person living with Sherlock means that he _can_ be reliably sure about that."

John shook his head. It sounded good, that voice of confidence, but he knew he didn't earn it.

"I'd never be able to find Sherlock's secret stash if he really put his mind to hiding it," he said glumly.

"Of course not," Lestrade agreed. "There's a reason why my drug busts never come up with any results… and I'm not sure that the reason is that the flat would be truly clean. But with enough puzzles to occupy that over-active mind of his, and with you to give him all the attention he not-so-secretly craves, the danger of him relapsing is considerably less."

"Don't be ridiculous," John laughed. "He thinks I'm an idiot; and he doesn't exactly make a secret of his opinion."

"Well, compared with him we all are, with the exception of Mycroft, of course" Lestrade shrugged. "That's not the point, though."

"What _is_ the point, then?"

"The point is: you admire his abilities and aren't afraid to say so," Lestrade explained. "You must understand that he probably never had this: somebody who wanted to be with him _because_ of who – or what– he is, not in spite of it. You say 'fantastic' and 'extraordinary' when other people say 'freak'. Sherlock loves to show off…"

"… which is the understatement of the century…" John grinned.

"… and you're the ideal audience for him," Lestrade finished. "Beyond that, you can stitch him up when he foolishly injures himself, so that he won't have to go to the hospital, which he hates, and you watch his back in all sorts of dangerous situations."

"Oh, please!" John protested. "Seriously, I'm just tagging along cause I don't have anything better to do. Which is why I need a job… apart from the fact that I need the money."

Lestrade gave him a sharp glance, usually reserved for suspects that tried to sell him a really stupid story.

"John, despite what Sherlock thinks, I'm not an idiot. "I _know_ what happened to that cabbie… Jeff Hope, wasn't it? And so does Mycroft."

"I don't know what you're talking about," John said blandly. "But I must admit that whatever Mycroft Holmes might think about me fills me with a certain degree of dread. Make that a fairly high degree of dread, actually."

"Nonsense," Lestrade snorted. "Believe me: Mycroft is as happy to have you living with his brother as he's capable of any kind of happiness at all. You've made his life considerably easier, being the only person Sherlock's ever tolerated for longer than a week. Of course, the fact that you're a doctor _and_ an ex-soldier with a good aim does help,' he added thoughtfully.

John looked at him with more than just a little suspicion.

"You seem to know them very well."

"Better than most people," Lestrade corrected. "I seriously doubt that anyone save for that infamous Mummy of theirs – whom I've never met, by the way – would _really_ know them. But yeah, I've been working with Sherlock more or less regularly for five years by now. I've known him since he was a skinny sixteen-year-old cocaine addict, living on the street and intruding in our crime scenes now and then to confront us about our stupidity. I've seen him go through therapy and relapse several times; it wasn't pretty. Trust me, Mycroft would be more than happy to pay for everything the two of you might need, as long as Sherlock remains clean and reasonably safe."

"I'm sure he would," John said dryly. "But I'm not one of Mycroft's paid minions. I'm more than capable of fending for myself – or I would be, if I could find at least a part-time job."

"Are you having financial problems?" Lestrade asked bluntly.

"I've got a few unpaid bills lately," John admitted with considerable reluctance; he hated discussing his problems, which was the main hindrance with his therapy, too. "Even paying half the rent for 221B isn't easy with my Army pension. I need some additional income to be able to afford London; and no, I won't accept money from Mycroft. I'm with Sherlock 'cause he's fascinating and I enjoy his company despite his faults, not 'cause Mycroft believes he needs a minder."

"He does, though," Lestrade said. "Need a minder, I mean. But I see your point. In fact, I had a similar discussion with Mycroft five… no, almost six years ago. Okay, about that job you need… you _are_ a fully qualified GP, aren't you?"

John nodded. "Of course. I took an intercalated year studying for a Bachelor of Medical Science degree at the beginning of my medical course at King's College London _before_ the usual five years of studies and the following training at Barts, but that doesn't mean I'm not fully qualified."

"And you're still registered with the GMC?"

"Sure; I still _am_ a doctor, aren't I? Without the registration, I wouldn't be allowed to work as one. Why?"

"'Cause I think I can help you find a job," Lestrade said. "An old friend of mine is the administrator of a large shared Practice. As far as I know, they often hire locum doctors to step in for colleagues who're ill or don't want to work out of hours. I can put in a word for you. She does tend to listen to me."

"She?" John repeated, grinning. "A lady friend then, eh? Does your wife know about her?"

"My wife," Lestrade said dryly, "is in no position to protest against my choice of friends, considering the rather questionable choices _she_ had made in the recent years… if one can trust Sherlock's observational skills; and we both know that one _can_. But yeah, she does know about Sarah – she's known about her from the start."

"Which was how long ago?" John made a defensive gesture. "Just curious, honestly."

"Nineteen-ninety-four," Lestrade replied simply. John whistled.

"That's a long time, man!"

Lestrade shrugged. "Almost as long as my marriage, yeah. Only it held better. When I first met Sarah, I was freshly married and still walking the beat. She was in her fourth year of medical school – UCL, if you have to know, not that it would really matter – and in serious trouble. My partner and I helped her out. I got a knife between my ribs for my pain, but we managed to arrest her attackers, and I gained a friend for life. Not that I'd know _that_ back then."

"Attackers?" John repeated, frowning. "Was she seriously hurt?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Nah; she got away relatively unharmed, albeit thoroughly traumatized as result… Listen, this is not my story to tell. If she wants to, she'll share. If she doesn't, you still might get a job… if you want me to give her a call."

"Oh God, yes," Johns aid fervently.

Lestrade raised an amused eyebrow.

"Aren't you afraid it would be deadly boring after all the serious action with the Army and with running after Sherlock across London?"

John's right hand crept up to his left shoulder instinctively. It was a rainy day, and his injured shoulder was aching, dully but persistently. Another thing he had to get used to for the long run, it seemed.

"Not everyone reacts to boredom with shooting the walls as Sherlock does," he replied. "I can use a bit of boredom to balance out all the excitement that living with a madman entails. Boredom is seriously underestimated in our age; it can be quite therapeutic, you know."

Lestrade grinned. "If it doesn't kill you first."

"There is that," John admitted ruefully. "So yeah, if you could put in a word for me, I'd be grateful. Without wanting to boast, I _am_ a very good doctor, and I have a series of skills that can come in handy for a GP practice. My experience in emergency medicine and surgery, for starters."

"I doubt they'd need you to perform major surgery in their operation room," Lestrade said doubtfully.

John laughed. "I'm not talking about amputations or organ transplantation. But even GP practices do get emergency patients on occasion – mostly meningitis or heart attacks – and it's important that all locum doctors are comfortable and experienced in dealing with common emergencies."

"But they won't need a surgeon for that, would they?"

"Not a battlefield trauma surgeon, no," John agreed. "But GPs that have doctors capable of performing minor operations – like putting in stitches or cutting out small skin lesions – get more money from the government, 'cause it saves the patient a trip to the hospital… _and_ it saves the NHS money."

"So, you're basically aspiring for the position of the resident GP minor ops doctor?" Lestrade grinned.

John grinned back at him. "Problem?"

The DI shook his head.

"No; what I've seen of you in action makes me think that you'll be a very _useful_ minor ops doctor. Put your CV together, I'll make that call, and we'll see how things will turn out."

"Er… putting the CV together won't be a problem; actually, I've already done that on my laptop," John said. "But I don't have a printer, and if Sherlock does have one, he's hidden it well."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You can print it out in my office. God knows Sherlock uses it as if it was his own."

"He does the same with my laptop," John grinned. "The lazy git couldn't even be bothered to fetch his own from the bedroom."

"That's Sherlock for you," Lestrade said philosophically. "Still, I'd miss the idiot, should he suddenly and mysteriously disappear. And so would you, admit it – he grows on you, despite everything."

"Guilty as charged," John admitted, and they laughed and finished their drinks before going their separate ways for the rest of the day.

TBC~


	2. Part 1: First Sight

**Friends with Benefits**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock and all related characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern versions of them belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, may their muses never abandon them. I only borrow settings and characters to have some fun. No copyright infringement intended and no money made.

**Author's note:** The beginning of the actual story is set twenty years ago. Consequently, some of the technology that appears naturally in the TV series can't be used, as they didn't even exist back then. Please keep that in mind if some things seem strange – especially if you are young. ;))

Also, my pitiful attempts of research haven't led to any results about the BMA House having a library or not. I simply decided for this story's sake that indeed it has. Or at least had back in 1994.

My heartfelt thanks go to the knowledgeable people at little_details, especially surgical_steel, for the excellent information about stab wounds and their treatment. Any factual errors may come from my faulty interpretation.

Beta read by Linda Hoyland, thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

**Part 01 – First Sight**

**Autumn 1994**

"So; how does married life agree with you?" Police Sergeant Russell Raffles, lovingly nicknamed Sergeant Rusty by his colleagues, asked his much younger partner, Sergeant Gregory Lestrade, as they were strolling across Tavistock Square, towards the building where the British Medical Association was housed.

Strictly speaking, patrolling London's major parks should have been the duty of the Royal Parks Constabulary, but a considerable number of the park constables had gone down with the nasty gastric bug that had been plaguing the city all autumn, and thus the park police force had needed to ask the Met to help out.

Neither Rusty, nor Greg truly minded, though. They both had been beat cops for a long time, accustomed to be out in all kinds of weather, and patrolling an area populated by university students was never boring.

"Oh, it agrees with me just fine," Lestrade, a handsome young officer of just past thirty, owner of the finest pair of coffee-brown bedroom eyes in the Force (at least according to female colleagues) replied, grinning. "Sure, the wife complains that I'm away from home a lot, but hey, she's all the more happy when I _do_ get home, at least. Besides, she's got her own job to occupy her, even though she hates it, so it isn't as if she'd be sitting at home alone all day."

"You can't blame her for hating her job," Rusty said. "I mean, seriously, desk clerk at a travel agency? It must be deadly boring!"

Lestrade shrugged. "At least she's amongst other people. And we need the money, too. By this rate we'll still be paying off the mortgage of the house on our fiftieth wedding anniversary."

"I still don't understand what's made you to buy a house right away," Rusty commented.

"Believe me, it wasn't my idea," Lestrade answered with a grimace. "The wedding alone made a big enough dent in my account. But Louise wanted a home of our own so badly…"

"And you were so eager to get married after Yvonne broke up with you after thirteen years that you didn't want to lose your new sweetheart over a technicality like that, even though it financially broke you," Rusty finished for him.

Lestrade shrugged again. "Once I've taken my exams and become a plain-clothes detective inspector, the salary will be better. We just have to make through this final year; we'll be able to breathe a bit easier after that."

Rusty shook his grizzled head in mild exasperation. He'd been Greg's partner on the beat ever since the younger man had joined the Force eleven years ago, at the tender age of twenty. Took him under his wings, showed him the ropes, as an older, more experienced cop was supposed to do with a rookie.

And Greg turned out to be a natural for the job. He dealt firmly with the drunks, broke up pub fights with ease and authority (the fact that he had a mean right hook _did_ help, of course), could face crazed junkies and armed street robbers with eerie calm, while having only a baton to his own defence, and was amazingly gentle with lost kids and crime victims.

After some of the idiots he'd been forced to work with in the past – he still shuddered when remembering the likes of Baynes, now, amazingly enough, a detective inspector in the Surrey force – Rusty was grateful to have a calm, capable long-time partner like Gregory Lestrade.

If only the man had the same luck with choosing his women! Unfortunately, he displayed a far worse judgement in his personal choices.

When he joined the police, Greg had already been living with Yvonne for two years. Helped the woman (one older than him by quite a few years) raise her two daughters, the older one four years old, the younger barely born when they got together. For all means and purposes, they appeared to be a happy family, despite the lack of actual blood ties.

And then, when the girls were old enough not to need so much direct care, so that Yvonne could pursue her personal interests again, she dropped Greg like a hot potato.

Rusty always suspected that Greg's stormy affair and hurried marriage to Louise had something to do with his fear of being alone. He was a family man with all his heart, always wanted lots of children – preferably ones of his own – but Yvonne hadn't been willing to bear more than the two she'd brought into the relationship already. Greg loved those girls as if they were his own, missing them terribly since Yvonne had moved to Stoke Newington with them, where she'd found a new, well-paid job as a landscape architect.

Greg was now hoping to have that family with his newly wed wife – well, relatively newly wed, the two had married a mere four months ago – and Rusty hoped for him that this time it would work.

He did have his doubts, though. The few times he'd met Louise she appeared high maintenance to him: a woman who required, no, _demanded_ constant attention from her husband. Marrying a cop for whom the job always came first was probably not the best choice for her.

Rusty himself had three broken marriages to prove his point and had long given up all hopes for an actual, working relationship.

On the other hand, Louise seemed to be truly smitten with Greg, and the two of them were still young. It _might_ work; especially when Greg took his exams and became a detective inspector. Women did like titles – many of them anyway – and detective inspector sounded (and paid) much better than being simply a police sergeant.

Also, becoming a detective would raise Greg's reputation, and Rusty was happy for him. Even if the promotion meant the end of their partnership; a fact that saddened him very much in advance.

* * *

His thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of an assault going on in some distance ahead of them: the frightened screams and protests of a woman and the loud, drunken laughter of several men.

Rusty reached for his baton grimly. God, he hated drunk idiots who seemed to believe that the mere fact that they outnumbered their victim entitled them to assault a woman. Not on _his_ watch, he swore softly, and exchanged looks of understanding with Greg.

They didn't know how many yobs they'd have to do with, but they'd done this before, many times. So they could be reasonably sure that they could handle the situation without wasting time calling for backup.

The noise came from the direction of the BMA House, the headquarters of the professional association of doctors in the UK – a Grade II listed building, which lay on the right of the main walking path across the gardens, which the two cops were currently following. They only had to run a couple more yards to come across the ugly scene of three young men – presumably students from the nearby Connaught Hall, and wealthy ones, too, if the quality of their clothes was any indication – cornering the girl in the shadow of one of the side entrances.

The young men weren't particularly big or strong, but the girl was even smaller, barely 5'3", just a slip of a woman, really. And she was alone against three obviously drunk men. She must have been a student herself; at least her torn backpack, thrown carelessly aside, and the books and notepads spilling out of it, pointed in that direction.

Her thick, white and black striped pullover was torn, too, coming off one bare shoulder and revealing that she wasn't wearing anything but a bra beneath it. The blue jeans and sensible, flat shoes she had on spoke about an evening spent with studying in one of the libraries, rather than going on a date with any of these idiots.

Despite being much smaller than any of the three, she did not simply roll over for them. She kicked and scratched, while screaming abuse at them. The very moment the two cops reached the scene, she even savagely bit the arm that was restraining her.

The owner of said arm let her go with a yelp of mixed pain and surprise – only to backhand her brutally in the next moment. And then something glinted in the deepening evening shadows.

"Shit; one of them has a knife!" Rusty hissed. "We better use the baton first and ask questions later, or this is gonna end very ugly. Ready?"

Lestrade nodded, removing the baton from his hip.

"Go for it," he said.

Rusty hurried up to the scene, holding his baton as a barrier in front of himself, just in case.

"All right, boys, enough is enough," he said in the same authoritative tone he used with rookie cops. "Stop this, or I'll stop it for you."

One of them turned around, scowling.

"I'd like you to try, officer," he spat.

He was clearly one of those rich brats that thought Daddy's money could buy him out of any kind of trouble. In most cases, he might even have been right. But again, he'd never met Sergeant "Rusty" Raffles before. The next moments would be educational for him and his equally snot-nosed friends.

"No, I really don't think you would," Rusty answered calmly and rammed the baton into the young idiot's solar plexus without forewarning. He aimed to incapacitate the boy, not to cause any serious harm. "You see, son, I simply can't stand rich bastards like you. Snotty-nosed little gits who think they're entitled to have everything – or everyone – they want, without making any serious effort to earn it, 'cause your family's managed to cheat a huge, stinking heap of money by the tax office. No, son; I don't think you'd want to sneak away just like that," he added, casually tripping to other one with a well-timed leg stretched across his way.

The youth clambered back to his feet and gave him a hate-filled look.

"I'm not your son, filth!"

"For which you should be eternally grateful; 'cause if you were, I'd break every bone in your body," Rusty said conversationally. "And it's Police Sergeant for you, kid. Your Daddy would have done better to teach you respect towards the authorities, instead of stuffing your pockets with money that could have been used for better purposes."

"You have no authority over me!" the young man spat.

"That's where you're wrong," Rusty said with an almost-friendly smile. "Ant that's why I'm gonna arrest you, for assault and attempted rape."

"What are you babbling about?" the third one, the one with the knife, snorted. "She was asking for it! Look the way she's dressed!"

"I've already looked," Rusty said. "And I saw a young woman in casual clothes – clothes that _you've_ torn off her body and will have to replace – very obviously dressed for work. Or studying. Not that it would matter _what_ she's wearing, though. Even if she'd walked across the park in the stark naked, it wouldn't give you the right to molest her. You're a human being – at least on paper – not some rutting animal. You're supposed to keep your hormones under control. Even if you're stone drunk and can't hold your liquor," he added in disgust, as the one he'd knocked down with the bacon was nosily and messily sick a few steps further away.

Lestrade, in the meantime, went over to the girl who was bleeding from a split lip – a result of Idiot #3 having backhanded her.

"Are you all right?" he asked in concern.

She nodded. "I am, now that you're here."

"Aren't you asking the wrong victim, officer?" Idiot #3 asked arrogantly. "The little bitch _bit_ me! Look, I'm bleeding! I might have to get myself tested for the rabies!"

"Actually, that's a good idea," Lestrade replied dryly. "If you test positive, that would explain your behaviour. Don't waste your breath with whining, though. I've raised two daughters; would be rapists don't even make it onto the list of people I'd _ever_ feel sorry for. You're scum; what's even worse, you're rich scum that believes they could get away with anything. Well, not this time, buddy."

"We'll see about that," the idiot hissed, and the next moment he lunged at Lestrade and took him in an arm choke from behind. The blade glinted and Lestrade felt a piercing pain in the right side of his back, outwards from the spinal column, slightly below the shoulder blade. Then his attacker tossed him to the side and ran.

For a moment, Lestrade just stared in shock; then he dropped like a sack of potatoes in slow motion.

Rusty Raffles didn't make the mistake of watching his partner go down. He'd care for Greg later. Right now, the more important thing was to stop the attacker. The little brat wasn't going to get away with knifing an officer!

"That was a mistake, son," he told the universe in general; then he simply threw the baton that hit the fleeing attacker on the side of his head with deadly accuracy, knocking him out cold.

Idiot #1 was still busy throwing up; that left Idiot #2 as the only potential adversary.

"Well, son," Rusty said calmly. "It's down to you and me, ain't it? Now, you can resist me arresting you, which would cause you _considerable_ pain. Or you can simply obey like a sensible bloke. This has gone well beyond molestation. You see. This is attempted manslaughter at best, and you'll need every brownie point you can gain to make the outcome better for yourself."

Idiot #2 nodded glumly and let himself be handcuffed without resistance. Rusty suppressed a sigh of relief and looked at the girl who was bleeding and shivering but surprisingly non-hysterical. Either she was in shock or she had nerves of steel.

"Do you have a phone on you, Miss?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I c-cannot afford a m-mobile. B-but we c-can use the p-payphone in the lounge of BMA House."

"Good," Rusty said. "Call an ambulance while I radio to the police station for a car. Tell them an officer is down with a stab wound in the back… and to hurry up."

She nodded and ran off to make the call. She didn't even bother to pick up her backpack with its spilled contents.

* * *

She came back almost immediately, before even backup would have arrived, appearing more collected already – but also worried.

"They said ten minutes," she told Rusty. "But I'm afraid your colleague might not _have_ ten minutes, unless I check on his wound and provide first aid."

"You can do that?" Rusty asked doubtfully. She nodded, not the least offended by his question.

"I'm a fourth year med student. This is basic training for those who helped out at A&E in the holidays. I did. I saw a lot of stab wounds. I need to see his wound to assess the level of damage the knife has done."

"Do you have the equipment to treat him?"

"Just a basic emergency kit; but that will be enough to stop the bleeding and stabilise him until the ambulance arrives." She was rummaging in her backpack and came up with a moderate-sized plastic box. "I'll need help, though."

"I'll do what I can," Rusty promised.

With his regulation pair of handcuffs, he cuffed the other two idiots together, then linked the third one to them, so that they formed a circle, which would have made it problematic to escape, even if all three of them cooperated in trying. "So, let's hope that backup arrives, soon. What do you need me to do?"

She opened the box, found a sealed bag of disposable rubber gloves, and tore it open with her teeth.

"I need to see the wound, so we'll have to remove his clothes and lay him on his side, so that he won't suffocate, should there be any blood in his airways," she explained. "You'll have to cut the jacket and shirt up on the back and hold the torch, so that I'll be able to identify the precise location of the wound."

"That so important?" Rusty wondered. It wasn't a chest wound, after all, and didn't appear to be bleeding too much.

She tossed a torch, a pair of trauma shears and some rubber gloves to him.

"The location is vital. If the wound's out laterally, they don't bleed that much. Fortunately, this is a back wound; in the front, underneath the collarbones and around the shoulders, we'd have got the subclavian vessels to worry about. In the central chest we'd have the heart, the great vessels, the bronchi, the oesophagus and so on…."

She was babbling. She was definitely babbling, either to show off, which Rusty somehow doubted – she seemed a sensible, no-nonsense kind of girl – or to reassure herself that everything will be all right. Even if she didn't really believe it. Or this was simply her way to deal with panic.

While she was explaining, they turned Greg onto his left side, to raise the wound _above_ the heart and thus lessen the bleeding. Then she, too, snapped on a pair of rubber gloves,

"Oh, good," she said, clearly relieved, when the wound became visible. "He's been very lucky. This is a lateral wound out toward to the right."

"It isn't bleeding too much," Rusty said in surprise. He'd seen stab wounds before, and they had always caused a literal blood bath.

"No," she agreed. "We get a bit of bleeding from the intercostal muscles, but that would stop on its own – likely a collapsed lung, too, by the whistling sound he makes while breathing. Nothing a chest tube and a few days in hospital wouldn't cure. There doesn't seem to be any foreign substance in the wound, like fibre from his clothing, so there's very little chance of an infection. Or so I hope."

She was babbling again, in a rather distracted manner. Definitely a calming mechanism for herself, Rusty decided. _He_ didn't need to be reassured. He was an old cop, used to see all kinds of injuries. Compared with things he'd seen in the past, this was rather tame, even if it happened to his long-time partner.

"Still, you can't intubate him right here, can you?" he asked. She shook her head.

"No, of course not. I don't have the necessary training _or_ the right equipment for that. But with the location of the wound we can afford to wait for the ambulance to come… _if_ they don't take longer than those ten minutes."

Fortunately for Lestrade, the ambulance arrived a mere four minutes later. The paramedics checked on his wound, nodded in satisfaction and wheeled him in the ambulance car without wasting any time.

"We're taking him to the UCL," one of them told Rusty. "There should be no problems at all. You did a good job, miss."

"Can I go with him?" the girl asked.

The paramedic shrugged. "Why not? Just hurry up."

"See you in the hospital," the girl called back over her shoulder to Rusty. Then she climbed into the ambulance to Lestrade, and it sped away with them.

* * *

Some two hours later Rusty Raffles was sitting in the waiting room of the _University College Hospital_'s A&E, waiting for Greg to regain consciousness, after his lung had been re-inflated with the help of a chest tube. The girl, whose bleeding lip had been treated in the meantime, was stubbornly sitting on his side.

SOCO had come and gone, having investigated the crime scene and collected the evidence – including her torn pullover, which was why she was wearing a hospital scrub instead. Photographic evidence had been taken of her bruises, as well as an imprint of her teeth, to compare it with the bite mark on the arm of Lestrade's attacker.

"You'd think _I was_ the criminal here," she commented bitterly. "Just 'cause I dared to protect myself!"

Rusty took a long, hard look at her. She was in her early twenties, at most, with pale skin and straight, reddish hair cut short at the jawline. Her features were delicate and she had an air of innocence and vulnerability about her. It could have been fake, of course, but Rusty didn't think so. He'd been a cop long enough to spot the fake ones.

"Just standard procedure," he said soothingly. "We need hard evidence against those bastards, so that Daddy's expensive lawyers can't bait them out of prison. Not this time."

She nodded, but Rusty could see that she didn't entirely believe him. He couldn't blame her, knowing how often victims were treated badly, if the actual culprit had money or influence… or both. It wasn't fair, but it was one of the facts of life, unfortunately.

"What were you doing in the park anyway?" he asked.

"Studying," she replied. "Well, actually I was coming away from the BMA House. They have an excellent library that I can use as a med student. I'll take an intercalated year to study for my Bachelor of Science degree. For that, I need good results from this term, though; and I have to hand in several papers to qualify."

"Sounds like a lot of work," Rusty commented.

She nodded. "And quite research-heavy. That's why I need a good library," she held out a hand to him. "I'm Sarah Sawyer, by the way."

"Sergeant Russell Raffles," Rusty shook the proffered hand. "But you can call me Rusty. Everyone does – save the people I arrest, that is. And my mate in there is Sergeant Greg Lestrade."

"I'm really sorry about him," she offered with a tremulous smile.

Rusty shrugged philosophically. "Wasn't your fault. You didn't ask for any of that to happen. He _will_ pull through, though, won't he?"

She nodded again. "Oh, yes, definitely. The wound is in one of the least risky places. They'll probably keep him here for two or three days, and he'll have to avoid contact sports – _including_ wrestling down fleeing criminals – and heavy lifting, or flying in an airplane for six weeks. After that, he'd be relatively pain free. Although," she added thoughtfully, "there may be random little movements for several months that will give him a twinge of pain and remind him that yes, he really _was_ stabbed."

"That's a relief," Rusty released a breath he wasn't even aware of having held. "His wife will be most upset, though. But who could blame her? They just married a short time ago; barely back from the honeymoon, and he goes and gets himself knifed."

"Newlyweds?" the girl – _Sarah_ – frowned. "But didn't he say he'd raised two daughters already?"

"Yeah, he did, but those were the kids of his ex, not his own," Rusty explained. "Nice girls, though. I reckon Greg misses them a great deal."

Sarah seemed as if she'd wanted to ask some more questions about Greg, but they were interrupted by a nurse coming out of his room.

"Sergeant Raffles?" she asked.

Rusty nodded, and the nurse continued with a tired smile.

"Your partner's just woken up. He got through the procedure just fine. Dr Stoner says he'll be right as rain in a couple of weeks… barring any infections, of course."

"Can we see him?" Rusty asked.

The nurse nodded, obviously mistaking Sarah for Lestrade's wife; she probably hadn't been present when they'd been brought in.

"Sure. But be quick; he needs to rest."

"We'll be only a minute," Rusty promised, and so they were allowed into the small, two-bed ward, currently occupied by Lestrade alone.

He didn't look too bad for somebody who'd just been stabbed in the back, Rusty found. Of course, the fact that he'd kept himself fit probably did help, but aside from the dark shadows under his eyes and a bandaged chest, he looked reasonably well. He was lying on his side, so that he wouldn't put weight on his injury, but seemed to breathe without difficulty, though his breaths were a bit shallow.

He even managed the shadow of a tired grin.

"You… okay?" he whispered, looking at Sarah.

She laughed, but there were tears in her eyes.

"Shouldn't I be asking _you that_?"

Lestrade made a dismissive little gesture with the hand that was free of any IV tubes.

"Had… worse."

"No, actually you haven't," Rusty snorted. "Don't play the tough guy here. You had damn luck this time; it could have been much worse, so try to take it a bit more seriously."

"I do," Lestrade closed his eyes for a moment. "Just practicing… my spiel before… Louise arrives."

He paused, obviously in pain despite whatever was being pumped into his veins through the IV line. Then he looked at Rusty.

"She's been… informed?"

Rusty nodded. "Yeah; Harris sent a car. She'll be here any time now. D'you wanna me tell her you're still sleeping? Give you a bit longer to rest? You look like you could use it."

"No," Lestrade whispered. "She's my wife. I'll… deal with her."

Rusty shrugged. "If you say so, mate. Me, I think you should learn to put your foot down sometimes when it comes to your women. You let Yvonne get away with just about everything in all those years; and Louise is on her way to call all the shots in your marriage, soon."

"Leave it, Rusty," Lestrade said tiredly. "You aren't the poster boy of… happy marriages, either."

"There is that," Rusty admitted ruefully. "Well, I'm glad to see you awake and lucid – as lucid as you ever can get anyway – but I must be off now. I'll take Miss Sawyer here to the police station and take her formal statement, while you're lazing around in bed, flirting with all the pretty nurses and all that."

"Not fair… to tease when I… can't hit you," Lestrade made a tired little wave with his free hand. "Off you go before I… run out of… painkillers."

"Right," Rusty rolled his shoulders, gone stiff and achy during the waiting. "We'll leave you to the tender mercies of your wife then. Somebody will come to take _your_ formal statement later, too. See you tomorrow… or rather today, as it is."

"Not… going anywhere… soon," Lestrade replied dryly.

~TBC~


End file.
